There are few things more embarrassing than being caught with your pants around your ankles, and as I have discovered over the years, this could happen for a myriad of reasons.
I’ve never had an en suite before. We’ve just come from having the teeniest tiniest bathroom of all time ever in GrimNagh – they somehow squeezed a shower-bath, toilet and sink into what can essentially only be described as a broom cupboard. The bath was so tiny that I couldn’t even stretch my legs out in it (and I ain’t got no super model legs). We figured it was designed for ages 14 and downwards only, if that age group of little people were allowed to live alone. Or maybe the average height in GrimNagh is Munchkin…who can say.
But now we have a new house. A NEW HOUSE! God, I couldn’t be happier. We worked our asses off and saved our shekels and we did it! I’m so thrilled that you probably haven’t heard me complain about anything for several weeks now, which is obviously not very like me. Part of the joy with the new house is that Ass Monkey and I have our very own grown-up en suite in our grown up bedroom. You know, one that can be completely rubber-duck and potty training-paraphanalia free? I may even leave expensive makeup lying around because it will never be touched by toddler hands.
However, as I discovered last night, to my absolute HORROR, the en suite does have it’s down side. Jacob came in to our bed, as he does sometimes, during the night and decided that he fancied a drink. He wanted it now, and he only wanted me to go and get it. (There’s something very unnerving about how that kid demands that only Mammy does things like change his arse and fetch his biscuits. I’m willing to see how it pans out before I decide that I have a two-year-old misogynist on my hands).
‘Ok’, I told him. ‘Mammy will bring you downstairs in a second. I’m just going to have a wee-wees first’.
I dragged my preggo hoop out of bed and shuffled the few steps over to the glorious en suite for my 72nd wee of that particular 24 hour period. I heard a little kerfuffle outside as Ass Monkey tried to get Jacob to calm down a bit and then…. and THEN…. the door to the en suite flew open and there stood my little person, staring and crying that I had dared to pop out of the room for two seconds while he was mid-tantrum.
And there, over his head, I could see Ass Monkey sitting in bed with a stunned, confused and middy amused look on his face – concocted by a mixture of his sleepy head and the view of yours truly taking a piss for all to see.
‘DON’T LOOK AT ME!!!’ I ordered and he duly popped his head back under the duvet.
I’m not even sure that I fully finished weeing before the embarrassment of it completely overwhelmed me enough to stand up to go and get the crazy kid’s juice. At which point he pulled my pajama bottoms down and refused to let me pull them up again.